Frenching
by Morwynn
Summary: Don't get too excited, they're just speaking French: when Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett discover they both know French, they have another language to not communicate in. Oneshot. Mild Sweenett. It's better than it sounds, je promis.


Je n'ai pas oublié--M. Todd et Mme. Lovett ne sont pas miens…malheureusement.

Mr. Todd exited his tonsorial parlor and made his way down the outside steps, on his way to ask Mrs. Lovett to make him some lunch. The sun was actually peeping through the clouds periodically this morning, and it wasn't raining at the moment. Perhaps because of the good, or at least better, weather, the streets were bustling with more people and energy this morning. Even Mr. Todd noticed the change. Should be a good day for business, he figured.

He heard the little bell at the door to the pie shop tinkled merrily, and he cringed at the sweetness of the tone. He heard the muted voice of the customer:

"Bonjour!" exclaimed the young man who had just entered the shop. "Comment ça va, Madame?"

Mr. Todd imagined Mrs. Lovett behind the counter, looking confused and nervous at the foreigner. Midway down the stairs, Mr. Todd looked down through the windowed walls of the bakery to see the speaker, a young woman on his arm.

He wondered what Mrs. Lovett would do; she couldn't speak French after all, she was too poor to travel anywhere, even to her infernal sea. Now, on the other hand, when one is shipped half way around the world, _then_ one gets a thorough education in languages, but--

"Eh, bonjour! Ça va bien, et vous?" Mrs. Lovett replied, her cockney accent translating only slightly more elegantly into the Romance language.

Sweeney quirked an eyebrow. Evidently, he was mistaken. Far back, somewhere deep in his mind, somewhere he ignored quite often--including now, for the most part--he was intrigued. No, perhaps that's too strong a word.

"Très bien, aussi," the young French woman replied. "Nous avons faim! Qu'est-ce que vous avez pour manger dans cette boulangerie?"

The couple, each tall and slender with dark hair, made their way to a seat, still arm in arm. They sported, albeit somewhat stereotypically, berets, which looked somehow rather chic on them.

Mrs. Lovett walked over to their table, moving into Mr. Todd's view, and told them, "J'ai du pain, des tourtes au viande, des tartes au fruits… Qu'est-ce que vous voudriez?"

"Nous prenons des tourtes au viande, s'il vous plaît. Et, est-ce que nous avons du vin pour boire avec le repas?"

"Ah, bien sûr! Vous désirez un coup de rouge?" she asked, bustling to the back of the store, where she kept some wine at hand for guests.

"Merci," requested the Frenchman.

Interested, Mr. Todd decided, was perhaps a more accurate word. But that's not to say curious. _Possibly_ mildly curious; fascinated was far too strong.

"Au bord de la mer…" Mrs. Lovett sang her song in French as she fetched the wine and the glasses. "Que dites-vous du temps? Au bord de la mer… Nous vieillirons ensemble…"

As she returned to their table, she quit her song and continued the conversation. "Il fait beau aujourd'hui, n'est-ce pas? Il ne pleut pas, au moins, et il ne fait pas trop froid. Et de temps en temps, il fait du soleil! Le temps en France est mieux qu'en Angleterre, je suis sûr, mais…"

Good God, she even _rambled _in French. And about the weather, no less. Mr. Todd turned to go back upstairs, but something stopped him, and he paused once more to listen.

Mrs. Lovett clunked the glasses onto the table, uncorked the bottle roughly, and poured them each a glass rather sloppily, spilling the red liquid onto the wooden table top. Just as Mr. Todd had forgotten how to be gentle with a razor during his absence from England, Mrs. Lovett had forgotten how to serve with finesse over the past fifteen years. She didn't seem to notice, or if she did, she didn't seem to care.

Mr. Todd really had no desire to learn too much about her. She might get excited at his apparent interest. She might mistake it for something more, and that wouldn't do at all.

"Bon," she said, mostly to herself as she brought the wine back to its place in the back. "Et maintenant…"

But somehow, he _did_ want to know where she had learned; it was so unexpected. Then again, she was always full of surprises.

She drew out two plates, almost slamming them onto the counter, as she was wont to do; they sent up clouds of the ever-present flour. The French customers eyed her somewhat warily. She opened the small oven behind her counter and drew out two freshly baked pies—policeman, she believed—and dropped them onto the plates, then carried them over to the couple.

"Combien de temps êtes-vous passés à Londres?" she asked, making more polite conversation than the French often like.

"Deux semaines—c'est notre lune de miel," the woman replied in between bites.

Mrs. Lovett grew excited. At least somebody was in love and getting married around here!

Mr. Todd saw her face light up, and admitted to himself, _Elle _est_ belle, quelquefois, quand elle sourit comme ça. _And then he shook himself mentally. Evidently French was contagious this morning, and making him think distracting thoughts to boot.

"Félicitations!" Mrs. Lovett exclaimed warmly.

She did have a beautiful smile. Of course, they were talking about weddings. That thought made Mr. Todd snap back to his usual cold, brooding self almost as quickly as Mrs. Lovett's warm smile had lifted him out. Well, half-way out, at least.

Mr. Todd stalked back up the stairs, deciding to leave Mrs. Lovett to_ ses clients français _and come back down when they left. He knew not to bother trying to shave the Frenchman, since they would have to take care of the woman as well, and convincing a woman she needs to visit a barber shop is tricky, to say the least. And even if he did manage to do them both in, the newlyweds surely had plenty of family awaiting them at home.

A little while later, Mr. Todd stomped back down the stairs to find Mrs. Lovett alone in the bakery. He opened the door, the infernal little bell cheerfully announcing his less than cheery arrival and making him grimace once more.

"Bonjour," Mr. Todd snarled, somehow making even French sound menacing and angry. Growling the r's helped. "Comment allez-vous ce matin, ma chère?"

He forced down memories that came bubbling up, memories of the Frenchman he had been chained next to for months on that filthy ship…

Mrs. Lovett's face split into a delighted smile. Mr. Todd half wondered, deep down, of course, if an attempt to elicit that sweet smile, to see those warm brown eyes light up in his direction, was what made him decide _parler français _to her.

"Très bien, maintenant," she replied, sounding more shy to him than she had to the customers. "Et vous, mon chou?"

He walked over to her, his movements still so graceful after all these years. "J'ai faim," he told her. "Vous désirez manger ensemble?"

"I'd love to," she said somewhat breathily; he was standing kind of close. "You sit yesself down and I'll fix us some lunch. Not sure where Toby is, though, 'e's probably out…" and she trailed off suddenly, remembering how it frustrated him when she talked too much.

Mrs. Lovett did get on his nerves easily. So often, she was too chipper, too upbeat, too talkative. But all the same, somehow, though she didn't even know it, that smile of hers always made Mr. Todd follow suit. Inside, at least.


End file.
